


Lust for Life

by orphan_account



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Doctors, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, BAMF Margaery Tyrell, Brain Surgery, Dr. Petyr Baelish, Dr. Sansa Stark, F/M, I'm Bad At Tagging, Margaery Tyrell rules at everything, Medical Residency, Petyr and Sansa are Surgeons, Surgery, The Grey's Anatomy AU Nobody Asked For, hospital au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-15 05:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12314847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: All Sansa Stark wanted was to get through yet another long shift. As a senior surgical resident, her future lay squarely in the choices to be made at the start of the day, during the first cut of the knife, after the closure of a body cavity. However, life has a funny way of sneaking up on you when you're busy making plans.





	1. My Boyfriend's Back and He's Cooler Than Ever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ophelia_Raine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophelia_Raine/gifts).



> For Ophelia Raine without whom this story would not exist. Aka The Grey's Anatomy (But not really!) AU she asked for.

_So tired trying to see from behind the red in my eyes,_

_No better version of me I could pretend to be tonight._

_So deep in this swill with the most familiar of swine_

_For reasons wretched and divine._

\- Hozier, J _ackie and Wilson_  

 

 

" _RT Staff on duty... Proceed to... for STAT ABG..._ "

 

There is always that moment in the seconds after the disembodied voice has paged for STAT _anything_ in the emergency room, when your hearing becomes heightened and adrenaline starts to pump, because 50% of the time, the follow-up to that page is 'Code Blue at Emergency Room'.

 

For most people, Mondays were hell. For Dr. Sansa Stark, General Surgery resident and everybody's favorite scut monkey - every day was a look into the gaping maw of the abyss. On some days, she swore the abyss also looked back, taunting her.

 

She rubbed at tired eyes, trying to make sense of the orders written by the previous shift’s physicians on the sheet in front of her. The words blurred into each other, line after line of chicken scratch gibberish made even more unintelligible by exhaustion and sleep deprivation. Upon hearing the page, her heartbeat began to speed up and she stood, stretching, locking her fingers in front of her and bringing them up over her head, enjoying the little cracks and pops her joints and spine made as her body arced backwards, sinuous as a ballerina in mid pirouette.

 

Grabbing her stethoscope, she nudged the sleeper sprawled face down on a stack of charts. The silky head of brown hair jerked upwards, turned to face her, rheumy eyes blinking back the last vestiges of sleep. "Stat ABG at the ER. You know what that means."

 

The owner of the silky head groaned. "Well, fuck. I hope they don't call a code."

 

"Fat chance. Luck ain’t no lady -- " started Sansa.

 

“Luck’s a bitch,” finished the brunette. Another groan. "Stark, I hope you're wrong this time, though. I need a break. I’ve been on Crash Cart duty all week."

 

"You have my deepest sympathies,” said Sansa dryly, shrugging into her white coat. “I’m going to go get some coffee. You want one too?"

 

"Depends. Are you buying?"

 

"Maybe. C'mon, Poole, make up your mind, I'm dying here."

 

"It's vending machine coffee, Stark. Choices are pretty much between take it or leave it."

 

"Your loss," said Sansa, walking away.

 

"I'll take a mocha as long as it's free," Poole called out.

 

"Lightweight. Bitter and black is the only way to go," yelled Sansa over her shoulder, taking brisk steps towards the elevators.

 

Around her, the surgical wing of the King’s Landing University Teaching Hospital was slowly coming alive. Nurses frantically scribbling down notes, jotting down orders and accounting for their every action towards their patients for the last twelve hours. Others were filling up medication sheets, preparing for shift turnover. Aides and orderlies wheeling stretchers and equipment into place. Preparing for the morning rush. Doctor Sansa Stark cut through the fray, making a beeline for the vending machine, the beeps and clicks of monitors and machinery underscoring the hubbub of the pre-endorsement rush.

 

She slipped a couple of dragons into the coin slot, hearing the telltale click of gears falling into place. From within the machine, the faint rumble of coffee percolating, followed by the telltale hiss and gurgle of the Maiden's morning brew splashing into place. Sansa reached for her coffee, inhaling the comforting smell, the warmth seeping into her cold fingers. She punched in an order for a mocha, closed her eyes and sipped quietly at her own drink. For the nth time in the past six months she asked herself what exactly she was doing here, with her life, with these people. If she had even made the right decision.

 

A voice inside her head murmured, _‘We didn’t come here to make friends, Sansa. We came here to be the best and fuck what anybody else may say or think_ '. It sounded suspiciously like Margaery Tyrell, Surgical Chief Resident extraordinaire and one of her dearest friends. A friendship forged despite and perhaps even because of the ever-present rivalry that exists when individuals who are brilliant, talented and ambitious share a workplace.

 

Residency had turned them all into zombies, operating on autopilot, fueled on most days only by caffeine and adrenaline. Their camaraderie that of they who have known the hell of death and disease yet willingly walked into it every day.

 

She looked at her reflection in the smudged glass of the vending machine, assessed herself with the critical eye borne of a lifetime of familiarity with one's own features. An image of a young woman, passably pretty, stared back at her with tired eyes. A smattering of freckles on her nose, on high cheekbones, on skin made pale by the prolonged absence of sun. Sighing, she made her way back to the surgical floor, where, instead of Jeyne she found none other than Margaery Tyrell, flipping through charts and taking down patient notes.

 

 _Swot_ , she thought with no small amount of affection.

 

As always the brunette was expensively dressed and perfectly put together, even at six in the bloody morning. She had on sensible but stylish ballet flats and a cream blouse, the plunging V of her neckline hinting tantalizingly at treasures within, with those perfectly cut cigarette trousers. Her white coat was slung carelessly over the back of her chair. Sansa would hate her for it if she still could muster up the strength.

  

She settled for making a small sound of disapproval. “What are you doing here so early in the morning, Tyrell? Don’t you have interns to terrorize, surgeries to plan, maesters to keep in line?”

 

“Tch. You know I need ungodly amounts of caffeine in my system to prevent mass murder, Sansa,” said Margaery, as she put a chart down and reached up to accept Sansa’s proffered mocha. “Isn’t it strange how you can never find anyone around when you need a floor update?”

 

“Nobody wants to be asked to do a detailed accounting of their patient care protocols over the last twenty four hours so close to the end of the shift,” Sansa pointed out. “Though you seem to think I’ll be happy to sit here and discuss patient management with you.”

 

“Because you’re a complete and utter swot, Stark,” replied Margaery, taking a seat as she began arranging charts by name and room number before settling in for a discussion.

 

Sansa bit out a laugh as she settled into the seat across from Margery and leaned back, closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to recall her own management plans.

 

“How’s patient Dontos?” asked Margaery, flipping open a chart.

 

“On day 5 of Azithromycin. Breath sounds are clear, afebrile for the past 36 hours. Possible discharge after Pycell’s rounds.”

 

The brunette _hmmd_ as she scribbled on the chart margins. “Luwin thinks we should extend treatment. What about that Lannister relative up on the fourth floor?”

 

“Luwin is welcome to take it up with Pycelle. Dontos is fine, he can finish up the rest of his treatment course at home. As for Garrett Lannister, it’s his fourth hospital day, second day post laparoscopic cholecystectomy. He’s clinically stable but complained of lower extremity weakness last night. Serum electrolyte results are pending but my money’s on hypokalemia.”

 

“Have the incoming shift follow up his labs and relay them to me,” said Margaery. “Last thing I need is Tywin Lannister breathing down my neck.”

 

“Got it, Tyrell.” The last thing _any_ of them needed was Tywin Lannister breathing down _their_ necks. The Chief of Hospital was a notoriously hard man. Hard on his subordinates, harder still on his children - all of whom he felt were complete and utter disappointments despite their successes in their respective fields. 

 

Margaery set aside the chart she had been browsing. “Though before we continue, I just remembered -- Sansa, have you gotten around to deciding which elective to pursue?”

 

 _Gods. Not again._ Sansa rolled her eyes. “Not you too, Tyrell. I get enough grief as it is from my --” her reply was drowned out by the crackle of the PA coming alive.

 

 _“Attention all units!”_ Around the floor heads popped up like meerkats as residents, interns, and students stopped mid-task and listened, the expression on most faces was attentive. Others looked more apprehensive. _"Code blue in room five-one-four! Code blue in room five-one-four!"_

 

“ _Crap_ ,” swore Sansa. The two women locked eyes for a brief moment, then bolted from the table, heading for the nearest exit.

 

The squeak of rubber soles against slippery tile in beat a staccato rhythm as Sansa ran down the hall, dodging early visitors and hospital personnel alike. Ducking into the dusty stairwell, she took the steps down two at a time, jumping the last three to push open yet another door leading to another aseptically white hallway, continuing her madcap dash to Bran Stark’s room.

 

\--

 

The door at the end of the hall was open - from inside, the sound of a code in full swing. A crush of medical and nursing staff obscured the limp figure lying in their midst.

 

"What the hell happened?" demanded Margaery, rounding the foot of the bed to stand near the monitors at the headboard. Sansa glanced at the vitals flashing onscreen. Bradycardia. Heart rate was down to the low 50s, blood pressure of 150/100, irregular respiration. O2 saturation at 88%.

 

"He just... seized, doctor Tyrell," an intern offered, rapidly flipping through the patient’s chart. "We were doing our morning rounds when he had a generalized seizure. Ygritte here was able to intubate," he gestured towards a slight redhead with a greenish stain on her scrubs. "We were about to check for placement --" Sansa gently set the diaphragm of her stethoscope on a thin chest as the intern, Podrick, attached the other end to an Ambu bag and squeezed. Left, right. Clear breath sounds bilaterally. Symmetric chest expansion. Tube was in place. O2 saturation at 96%.

 

Sansa grabbed a penlight from the crash cart, shone it into Bran's eyes.

 

She felt her blood turn to ice water in her veins. She flashed his other eye, noting how it responded to the sudden brightness. "Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap, his left pupil's blown," she said, more to herself than anyone else. Looking up, she yelled. "Someone page Neuro! We've got a bleed!" Sansa looked around, searching for Margaery. The older surgeon’s coolheaded command Sansa’s comfort.

 

"Tyrell, page Jeyne, ask her to check if we've got an OR vacant or available for On-Call. STAT cranial CT, inform Radiology, tell them we've got a possible traumatic brain injury. Make sure Baelish knows we're coming. Someone insert an NGT and for godssakes, get him a mouth guard."

 

"On it, Stark," said Margaery, with reassuring calm. Always in control, Sansa's rock in an ever-changing sea. The team sprang into action, transferring IV lines, hooking the BVM to a portable oxygen tank, mobilizing for transport. Sansa stomped the bed brakes to unlock and pushed Bran out into the hallway, the interns carrying his peripherals trailing behind, jogging to keep up the pace.

 

\--

 

Dr. Margery Tyrell really, _really_ hated Mondays.

 

As Chief Resident of the Department of Surgery, not only did she have to deal with the scheduling of the week’s pending surgeries, intern reports, and avoidant residents, she also had to contend with breaks in her plans for the day. As OCD as she was and had always been, five years in the GS program had taught her to go with the flow, lest she be driven mad by her need to control - or at the very least wrestle current events into some semblance of order (preferably in her favour).

 

This, though, she did not count on. Her co-resident's brother had fallen off his skateboard a few days ago at his exclusive private school for gifted children. The same school Margery herself almost attended, had her grandmother not raised her objections. In retrospect it had been the right decision as she never would have become a physician if she'd been lumped in with those geeks. She'd probably be in some weird secret government-run program right now, mumbling in Klingon and looking at numbers that made sense only to her all day. 

 

The kid was fine, initially. Walking, talking, a bit groggy but that was to be expected considering he'd hit his head on concrete. Neuro had been keeping him for observation, making sure there were no lasting consequences. This, however, changed things significantly. One does not simply suffer from seizures without sequelae - and underlying pathologies. He was fortunate his sister was there. Sansa was always a quick study. Smart, driven, passionate about things she loved. She'd been a bit distant lately, but Margaery chalked it up to the confusion and life-altering decision she had to make in a few weeks - that of which surgical subspecialty she would choose to pursue further. Margaery herself had no such trouble. Thoracic and Cardiovascular Surgery was it, all the way. There was something about cutting through the sternum, of cracking open the ribcage to reveal the rhythmically pulsing organ within. The source of life itself. 

 

She ran alongside the stretcher, one hand on the railing, the other punching a familiar number into her cellphone. Dr. Tyrion Lannister picked up on the third ring. "Doctor Lannister, the Stark boy's got a bleed. Subdural by the looks of it. We're taking him down to Radio now. Have an OR on standby, we've paged Neuro for a consult." She cast a worried look at the slight child they were transporting, dark brown hair in eternal disarray, cowlicks all over the place, skin unnaturally pale against the white bedspread.

 

Though she hadn't done so in a very long time, Margaery prayed.

 

\---

 

The Radiology department was located deep down in the bowels of the K.L.U.T.H. There was an unnatural stillness in the recycled air. Most of the time the only sound heard was the humming of equipment and machinery and the low drone of the air-conditioner, keeping the temperature at a constant, sub-Arctic level. Sansa pulled her coat tighter around, hands under armpits in a futile effort to warm her frozen digits.

 

She looked out through the glass partition to where Bran lay, head ensconced in the maw of the CT Scan machine, an intern industriously squeezing the BVM in evenly-timed cycles, keeping his lungs inflated and forcing oxygen into his body. Sansa hoped he wasn't as cold as she felt inside.

 

"Sansa," a low rumble from above, the voice of a veritable giant of a man, towering over. "Prints are here." A rustle of film being mounted onto the viewing boards.

 

"What have we got, Dr. Clegane?" said Sansa tiredly. Afraid to look up, afraid of what she would find in the black and white truth of the cranial imagery.

 

"Subdural bleed with an intracranial component," said Dr. Sandor Clegane, Chief Resident of the Department of Radiology waving a meaty hand over the slices of Bran’s brain to point out a crescent shaped lesion with darkened areas of hemorrhage. "It's pressing against the left optic nerve."

 

Sansa closed her eyes and let out a shuddering breath, steeling herself for all the possible implications. _I’ve got to tell mom and dad._

 

Behind her, a door slid open, followed by muffled footsteps, of leather wrapped in sterile shoe covers.

 

"I came as soon as I saw Tyrell’s page." A man’s voice. Well modulated with the inflection of the affluent and well educated.

 

Sansa turned towards the speaker and saw the silhouette of a slender, compact figure, backlit by the harsh fluorescent glow from the hallway, his face in shadow. A shock of short black hair, greying at the temples proved to be his defining feature in the half-light.

 

Sansa squinted to get a better look, trying to discern his expression, the name embroidered on the pristine white coat caught in a stray beam from the hallway: Petyr Baelish, M.D. and underneath it, in red stitching; Department of Neurological Surgery.

 

"Baelish," said Clegane, the faintest flicker of relief arcing across his grim features. "Glad you could spare the time." The figure inclined his head in acknowledgement, walking into the viewing room.

 

"What am I looking at, Clegane?"

 

Sandor Clegane moved closer to the monitors, gave a brief rundown of Bran’s history. "Fifteen year old Caucasian male, traumatic brain injury secondary to a fall. Third hospital day. Was lucid up until this morning when he had a generalized tonic-clinic seizure followed by hypertension, bradycardia, and respiratory depression."

 

Doctor Baelish took several steps towards the films, pulled the last series off the viewing board and held it up to get a closer look.

 

"Subdural bleed. Probably bridging veins. You can see where it has crossed the suture lines. Ventricles are deviated towards the right, median shift, clearly. It's what's causing your compression symptoms. We have to go in and evacuate. Someone book an OR?"

 

"All prepped with a team ready. Tyrion Lannister’s on standby. Tyrell and Stark here called them," Clegane replied.

 

"Presumptous aren’t we," said doctor Baelish, finally turning to look at her. Sansa had the faint impression of dark eyes and stubble in the dim glow of the monitors.

 

"Snark all you want, but she called it, Baelish. CT was for localization."

 

Doctor Baelish made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort. _Dick_ , thought Sansa.

 

Baelish surveyed the films once more, making a decision. “Very well. Inform his family, get him prepped, and let the OR know I'm on my way." With that, he turned and walked out the door, leaving Sansa staring at his wake, at the man who would be cutting into her brother. Drilling a hole into his cranium. Saving his life. She shook her head, gathering muddled wits together, and followed Baelish into the hall. _You're an idiot, Sansa_.

 

"Hey, wait," called Sansa at the neurosurgeon's retreating back.

 

"You're doing a craniotomy now?"

 

" _Craniectomy_ ," he corrected. "Just drilling the holes isn't going to work, we need more room."

 

Sansa blinked. "You're opening him up..."

 

"Yes." Baelish replied without further elaboration, not even breaking his stride.

 

"I'm scrubbing in, then!"

 

The figure stilled at the end of the hall, right before pushing open the double doors. Sansa hurried to catch up to him and grabbed his shoulder, a plea for him to stop and listen to her argument. He whirled around to confront her, mouth forming words before he bit off whatever he had intended to say and quickly surveyed their surroundings before dragging her into one of the alcoves and pressing his lips against hers.

 

Sansa tasted cigarettes, and coffee, the now familiar smell of his aftershave mingling with the scent of her shampoo that he had used this morning. A heady mix that threatened to overwhelm her senses. As it always had, since their little affair began, his kiss left her breathless, wanting, unable to resist. Sansa hated herself for this weakness. She melted into him, running her hands through his hair, gently cradling his nape, feeling the softness of the short strands there through her fingers.

 

She broke away from the kiss. “Petyr, please --” she breathed.

 

"No you're not, sweetling," said Petyr Baelish, his tone firm, resting his forehead against hers. "You can see him in, but get someone who isn't emotionally invested to assist.".  A voice that brooked no argument. His thumb softly stroked her cheek, a poor apology for the finality of his words.

 

"He's my brother! Of course I'm emotionally invested. You can't just tell me I can't-" protested Sansa, but he had already left her, was already walking through the doors.

 

"Fuck!" she swore as the heavy metal doors swung shut, slapping her palms against the wall, anger making her vision blur. She felt a hand on her back and spun around. "You get your hands off me you fu-"

 

Sansa felt her stomach drop to the soles of her chucks.

 

Sandor Clegane stood quietly, an enormous golem in the hall. The basement lights were unforgiving on the ruined half of his face, casting shadows over the twisted landscape of his cheek, his heavy, furrowed brow. "Doctor Clegane. I - I'm sorry," she offered lamely. "I don't know what came over me." _How much had he seen?_

 

He said nothing, merely stood there, waiting, an inscrutable look in his grey eyes. Sansa felt her throat constrict, her heartbeat slowing down as the seconds stretched on into what felt like an eternity before he finally spoke. "You must be very tired, little bird. You should get some rest."

 

Sansa slumped, all fight gone out of her. This really had been the most exhausting shift.

 

"Don't you worry about your brother," said doctor Clegane, once more placing a huge hand on her shoulder, his gruff voice lower than usual. The warmth of his hand seeped past her clothes, down to her skin. An unexpected comfort. "Baelish is the best at what he does. A bastard, but a brilliant bastard. Bran couldn't be in better hands.” With that pronouncement and one more long, searching gaze, he turned and left her, alone in the quiet hallway.

 

Sansa leaned against the wall and slowly slid down to sit on the scarred linoleum tiles, hugging her knees close to her chest. _What am I doing with my life?_

 

 

 


	2. Every Time I Close My Eyes It's Like A Dark Paradise

_There's a stain there's a stain there's a stain on the floor_

_I want to soak want to scrub want to clean it and more_

_But all the nurses are refusing to let me out of bed_

_And my eyes are pouring nightly_

Motion City Soundtrack, _Delirium_

 

The waiting is the hardest part.

 

This seemingly endless waiting in a white room devoid of all warmth, the faint smell of antiseptic in the air. Sansa hated this coldly sterile place, this constant reminder that it was, well, a waiting room. A glorified holding cell where nervous family braced for the worst possible news, rising panic tempered only by a glimmer of hope, a shaky faith that everything would be all right. She fought not to squirm in the hard plastic chair, a shade of blue darker than her rumpled scrubs. Sansa yearned for warmth, for the sun to shine on her once more. For Bran to stroll in, grin that lopsided grin of his, turn the past few hours into a mere nightmare she could wake from.

 

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Digging it out, she looked at the screen. _Crap._

 

"Mom? Surgery's about done. I’m waiting outside the Recovery Room," she started to say, uncertain of the response from the other end of the line. 

 

_I’m waiting and I don’t have a clue what’s going on. I don’t know if he’s okay. I don’t know what they found._

 

"How are you, sweetheart?" _Oh, mom_. It was just like her to worry about Sansa as well.

 

"I'm - I'm here, mom. Just here."

 

"Your father and I are almost in the city. Plane touched down half an hour ago, and traffic is just awful at the Twins. There’s a six-car pileup involving a gasoline tanker and a camper. Just horrible.”

 

 _Pileup. More bodies. ER’s gonna be toxic._ She swallowed, mouth dry. 

 

"Any idea how long ago?”

 

“EMTs were already there when we passed them. Going to be a long day for the hospitals in the area. You might want to let Margaery know to prep your Trauma Bay, get a team ready and waiting at the ER entrance.”

 

_Well, fuck._

 

Despite herself, Sansa couldn’t help but feel a rush of affection – and exasperation – at the familiarity of her mother’s no-nonsense behaviour. Physician first, mother later. It was just like Catelyn Stark, legendary Paediatric surgeon and twice recipient of the Aegon Targaryen Award to think of the preparations to be made at Sansa’s hospital in order to handle a mass casualty situation. 

 

Growing up, Sansa could barely remember her mother’s presence during the milestones of her young life. Dr. Catelyn Tully had been working hard at establishing herself as one of the foremost Paediatric Surgeons in Westeros. As such, she to be forever away on conferences and presentations for groundbreaking surgical techniques she herself had developed. A true pioneer in the field. It was on during one of those presentations early on in her career that she had met Sansa’s father, a paediatrician, fell in love with his steady, calm nature and, after a scandalously brief courtship, had married, borne him four children in rapid succession, and promptly returned to her career, leaving her husband largely responsible for their upbringing. 

 

Sansa envied her mother’s decisiveness, her ability to handle any situation with grace and steely resolve, both in her private and public life. 

 

Her two youngest siblings had come at a time when Catelyn was already established and had thus been the recipients of their mother’s determined guidance. Under her watchful eye, Bran and Rickon had flourished. Two brilliant boys with all the world before them, ripe for the taking. Until today. 

 

"Alright, mom. Just let me know when you’ve passed the bridge. I'll keep you posted on Bran. He should be out of the Post Anesthesia Care Unit soon.

 

“See you soon, sweetheart. We love you.” 

 

Sansa ended the call, wiped suddenly clammy hands on her coat. Her throat felt like the Sahara had decided to relocate there. _Where the hell was Tyrell?_ Elbows on knees, Sansa's head hung forward as she tried to fight off sleep. The crash from an adrenaline high was more often than not undignified as the human body is turned to an uncoordinated heap of high-strung tissues, a narcoleptic mess barely able to keep itself upright.

 

_So tired. Just a few minutes. Maybe I could lie down for a bit?_

 

She slid to the side, stretching out on three of the joined chairs. Uncomfortable, with the edge of one chair digging into her lower back, but she was horizontal and that was better than faceplanting onto the floor.

 

Losing the fight with exhaustion, she surrendered to sleep.

 

An hour later, Dr. Petyr Baelish walked in to update a dead to the world Sansa Stark on Bran Stark's status, took a look at the sleeping figure, and quietly slipped out of the room. He ignored the catch in his throat at the unbidden memory of waking up yesterday to the same sleeping face, beautiful in repose under the pre-dawn light, before stealing away like a thief. If he felt the same urge to sweep away the wisps of copper hair falling over the porcelain skin of her forehead as he did the other day, he gave no indication of it, as he thrust his hands into the pockets of his white coat, nodding at Dr. Sandor Clegane as they passed each other in the hall.

 

\--

 

The man’s size is what first catches the attention of the casual observer. Not only uncommonly tall, he was broad of shoulder and muscled in form, dwarfing everyone else in his vicinity. His build had served him well, both when he was a much younger man putting himself through college on a football scholarship and through three tours of duty in the army - the last one cut short when the Humvee carrying his squad rolled over a landmine and took out every last person in the vehicle save for himself. He had been thrown twenty feet, his clothes on fire. Stop, drop, and roll may have saved his life, but not his face. Though he had never been what most people considered classically handsome, he was not exactly lacking in female companionship. That was before half his face had become a ruined mess from the entirety of his cheek extending up to his scalp. The mass of scar tissue did not do him any favours in the looks department. The only up side to it was that his armed forces pension paid for his medical education.

 

Having the letters MD after his last name did not automatically guarantee that hordes of women ended up gagging for it, though most he found were willing to overlook his pretty mug in favour of his potential net worth - both in and out of bed. Big man, big feet, big … shoes.     

 

He watched the young woman lying fast asleep, stretched out on the lounge chairs outside the OR. The crease between his eyebrows deepened as he took in the dark circles under her eyes, the pale, wan tone of her skin, the steady rise and fall of her chest that she had crossed her arms over. Her right hand twitched as she sighed in her sleep. The last thirty hours had clearly sapped her of her strength, the delicate balance between sister and physician more draining than any surgery could ever be. 

 

Dr. Sandor Clegane gently placed the box of lemon cakes from the cafeteria on the seat beside the sleeping girl’s head. Beside it, he set a can of cold coffee and quietly left the room. 

 

—

 

 

 

Dr. Petyr Baelish approached the worried looking couple standing near the Nurse Station with some trepidation. Years of practice had taught him how best to deliver bad news to family in the most gentle of ways, giving them time to adjust to their loved ones’ prognosis – whether favorable or not. For the most part, relatives were often grateful and appreciative of his efforts. That was because most relatives weren’t fellow physicians.

 

The husband was a tall, fit man with longish, windswept dark hair touching the collar of his coat. Craggily handsome and square jawed, he had an aura of stoic command, like some Northern Lord come down to mingle with his constituents.  Though outwardly calm, his dark grey eyes were troubled as he looked around, seemingly searching for someone. The wife had her long auburn hair in a loose bun, the exact same shade as her daughter’s, whose silken mane Petyr never tired of running his fingers through at night, as Sansa lay sleeping, unable to believe his good fortune. Her expression mirrored that of her husband’s. As soon as she saw Petyr however, her worry shifted into ire as she advanced towards him at a clipped pace.

 

“What the hell happened, Petyr? What happened to my son?” she demanded. “You said he was fine. That you would keep an eye on him. Bran having sudden onset seizures is not what I would call fine.”

 

Petyr threw both of his hands up in front of him, both in defence and to placate. “I said no such thing. Watchful waiting, I believe was the term I used, Cat.”

 

“That is not the answer to my question. What. Happened?”

 

“It was a subdural hematoma. You know how these things are. Some of them could take days, even weeks to show up. Is initial CTs were clear. That’s why I wanted to keep him in for observation.” 

 

“You would have observed him to his death! It’s a good thing Sansa was there when she was.”

 

“Your daughter is a gifted physician,” he agreed. “Sansa was one of the first responders on the scene. She was able to identify what was going on based on history and PE alone. It was good medicine. You would have been so proud of her, Cat.”

 

“It no longer matters what happened or how it happened,” interrupted the husband, Eddard Stark. “What did you find?”

 

“The bleed was localized at the posterior cranial fossa. It followed the curve of the skull, and had expanded enough to be visible on CT the second time around.” 

 

“It expanded enough to cause seizures,” Catelyn bit out. “You did not anticipate this, otherwise you would have done something to prevent it.”

 

“On the contrary, it’s why I insisted he be observed in the hospital. If I didn’t, I would have sent your boy home and he would have had his episode in school, where nobody would have known what to do or what to look for.”

 

“He’s right, Cat,” said Eddard Stark tiredly. “You know it, and I know it. At this point, we’re just beating a dead horse. Arguing won’t change the diagnosis. It’s all about prognosis now. What matters is how he is doing now, and what will happen in the next few days, am I correct, Baelish?”

 

“You’d be correct.”

 

Stark shook his head. “Let’s go, Cat. Point us towards the OR, Baelish.”

 

“Certainly. It’s over there, right at the end of the hall,” he gestured towards the glass doors leading to the lounge right outside the OR. “Sansa’s in there as well, he added. “She just got off shift. Fell asleep while waiting. Didn’t have the heart to wake her.” 

 

Eddard Stark stopped in his tracks. “Are you so familiar with my daughter that you know her schedules now, Baelish?”

 

“She’s one of the residents rotating under their Neuro elective, Ned. I make it my business to know their schedules,” he countered smoothly.

 

Stark did not reply, instead, he placed his hand on his wife’s back and steered her towards the OR. Petyr watched them silently, waiting until they disappeared through the doors.

 

The frantic beeping of his pager snapped him out of his contemplation. Petyr unclipped it from his belt, squinted to read the scrolling words. _MASS VA. TO TRAUMA NOW._

 

The first casualties from the accident at the Twins had arrived. 

 

It was going to be a long day.

 

 

 


End file.
